


her eyes and his temper

by unicyclehippo



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 16:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19909099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicyclehippo/pseuds/unicyclehippo
Summary: this is from the prompt: what do you think beau's parents are like?





	1. Chapter 1

A breeze curls through the open window on the top floor of the Lavish Chateau, bringing with it the salt-spiced scent of the markets and the now-familiar sound of crashing waves. It flutters in the delicate curtains and the length of a blue ribbon tied about dark hair before making its way to a large bed where a young tiefling is drawing in her sketchbook. The breeze plays with the book and, with a last burst of strength that floods through it, sends the pages of that sketchbook aflutter, flicking quickly over and over and over one another until the book _slams_ open onto a drawing of a cartoonishly stinky man. 

Jester giggles. ‘You like that one? I do too.’

Beauregard lifts her head. ‘Huh?’

‘Don’t _eavesdrop_ , Beau,’ Jester chides.

‘Oh. The Traveller?’

‘Duh.’

Beau scans the room. ‘Is he…here?’

‘He’s never far,’ Jester tells her, and if the statement began serious and as devout as Jester gets, it ends spookily as Jester drags the fabric of her little cloak over her head to mimic a hood. ‘He could be watching us _right now,_ ’ she says, like she's a player in a horror production. 

‘Seems kinda wrong, spying on a girl’s night.’

Jester’s eyes go wide. ‘Oh my _god_ , you’re _right_. Hey! Traveller! If you’re here, this is a _girl’s night!_ Come back in the morning!’

The breeze returns stronger this time, slamming the shutters and curtains open, and it tousles Jester’s hair, wrapping the cloak all about her horns, before _tap, tap, tapping_ on her sketchbook and fading once more. Jester bends over it, pulling the fabric out of her eyes. She looks to be watching something and Beauregard—despite having just been told off—watches out of the corner of her eye as the image on the page—Caleb—seems to shiver and shift; the cartoon begins to move, one foot rising after the other as though climbing, and a fingerless hand comes up to wave? Or maybe…knock?

Someone knocks on the door. 

It is a single knock, sharp but not terribly loud, and it is followed neatly by two more.

‘ _Hallo, das ist Caleb_.’

Beau groans. Pulls herself out of her bed—not going toward the door but instead toward the window. She shouts back over her shoulder. ’What do you _want_ , Caleb?’

‘ _I have come to tell you that we have returned.’_ Beau makes a face that has Jester laughing and despite the door between them, they hear Caleb’s sigh. ‘ _I should not have bothered_.’

‘Thank you for letting us know, Cay-leb!’

‘ _Ja, you are welcome.’_ A pause, then, _‘Okay, goodnight_.’

‘Goodnight!’

‘Night!’ Beau flings her hands in the air, rolls her eyes. She turns to the shutters to latch them shut. ’Dude, we need to get those Xhorhas carpenters in here. Like, Fjord’s shutters do not even _budge_. I know because I locked myself out the other night and I tried to go in through his window and I _swear_ I was hanging off the side of the house for, like, twenty fucking minutes trying to get through that thing.’

‘Why didn’t you just knock on the balcony door?’

‘I mean, I was committed by that point.’ Beau flings herself back on Jester’s bed and pulls a pillow beneath her front, propping herself up so she can continue to write in her notebook. ‘What else did you and your - uh - your mum do? You went out today, right?’

‘Uh huh!’ Jester closes her sketchbook, kissing the cover of it quickly before stowing it safely under her bed next to the haversack, and she hurries to mimic Beau’s position. She kicks her feet up behind her, props her chin on her hands as she grins over at her friend. ‘So, mama doesn’t _love_ going outside but I figured, like, if we were still _inside_ then it would be fine! So we got a carriage and travelled around the city a bit and we went to the _beach_ , Beau! And we got some books there and we didn’t go to a restaurant because, like, people _know_ mama, she’s very famous so if she went out without guards, you know,’

As she is talking, it is hard with the sensation of glee, of delight, of _love_ that wells up inside her for her mama, to notice the way Beau’s patiently listening expression—not quite smiling, but frown noticeably absent—shifts to something different. She’s gone still, pen unmoving on the page, and though she’s nodding in all the right places, scoffing at all the places she would typically scoff, Jester feels the difference. And it occurs to her, over the many months she has known Beau that the other girl has never really mentioned her mother. Her father, sure. Mister Dickbag, wine expert and shitty father. Beau’s never had a problem ranting about her father—but her mother?

Jester halts in her description of the gulls divebombing the zolezzo on the beachfront—objectively, a hilarious topic—and frowns. 

‘Beau?’

‘Mm?’

‘What’s your mama like?’

Beau’s pen jerks, slicing a dark line across the page. Swearing, she jumps up and heads for Jester’s desk.

‘Beau,’

‘Sand! Fuck me! Blotting sand - do you have any?’

‘I think so,’ Jester says, but Beau must not hear her because she makes a low, frustrated noise in her throat and tears out of the room, saying something about Caleb and sand. 

Jester doesn’t get her answer that night.

//

She tries again. 

The Nein are on the road again, and it feels strange after teleporting and using Caleb’s transportation sigil, but it feels good too. It feels more like how it had when they had begun, journeying north in a dinged up wagon drawn by two long-suffering horses—Rum Tum Tugger and Grizabella—and camping on the side of the road within Caleb’s hut. 

The air is heavy on Jester’s skin and smells of lakewater—and not the crisp glacial kind but the sweaty kind with immense red-and-green algal blooms drifting just beneath the water, buzzing and biting insects swarming the surface. It’s humid and the sound of curious insects never really stops, especially out in the woodland like they are now, and it’s hard to sleep. Despite this, it is just the two of them awake as they keep watch, eyeing the surrounding forest. The fire has long since gone out; Beau dropped her goggles over her eyes when it did and hasn’t moved since. Not because she’s relaxed or calm. Even in her quietest moments, her deepest calm, Beau isn’t one for sitting still; the monk moves _constantly,_ curious eyes setting on one thing and moving to the next, always moving forward. Tonight she doesn’t, arm instead tucked firm against her side. 

‘Sorry I can’t heal you more, Beau.’

Jester gets a crooked smile across the fire pit, her friend shrugging a one-shouldered shrug. Half dismissal of the pain, yes, but also to ease Jester’s worry. ’S’fine, Jes. Reckon that insect plague came in fucking _clutch_. I can sleep this off.’

‘I just don’t want you to be hurt,’ Jester says. Then, ‘But I mean, it _was_ pretty good.’

‘It was in- _credible_ , I think you mean.’

Jester laughs, quiet, almost shy, and ducks her head. Her fingers seek out the symbol on her belt and turn it over, feeling the slide of a reassuring cold beneath her fingers. Her mama is her biggest fan, and the Traveller of course, and the others too, for _sure_ , but there is something about the way Beau _insists_ Jester takes her credit, takes her dues and more, that makes her feel warm. Seen. ‘Thanks, Beau. Um.’ She lifts a hand to rub at her eyes, gritty with road dust and exhaustion. ‘I can’t see _shit!’_

Beau chuckles. ‘You can go to sleep. I got this.’

‘No.’

‘Jes,’

‘I said no,’ Jester says, more sharply than either of them were expecting. 

Beau’s eyebrows lift in surprise, but she’s grinning too. She likes when Jester tells anyone what’s what—herself included—so she just nods. ‘Alright, whatever man. Draw in your book or something, but I can keep watch.’ She taps one eye of her goggles, the dull _tok tok tok_ of a knuckle against glass. 

‘Yeah, sure, I totally could,’ Jester agrees and instead of doing that, she pulls her old healer’s kit from the bottom of the haversack and scoots closer to Beau. ‘Arm up!’

‘Hey no, it’s fine— _ow_! God, Jester, stop _poking_ , that hurts—are you punishing me for something? What did I do?’

‘I am poking so I can _heal_ you, don’t be such a big baby about it,’ Jester scolds her, though she gentles the touch a little. Her expression turns mischievous and she waggles her eyebrows. ‘If I were punishing you, you’d know it.’

‘Oh yeah? Something you read about?’ Beau teases. ‘Please tell me that’s not something you spied on.’

‘Of course not!’ Beau sighs with relief. ‘But people talk a _lot_.’

‘Oh gods.’

‘They said that a lot too,’ Jester giggles. She slaps a patch of ointment onto Beau’s ribs, strapping a bandage around her. The ointment stinks and it starts cold but quickly heats to an almost uncomfortable degree but it helps almost immediately with the tightness and the heavy bruising.

‘Ow.’

‘Baby.’

‘Shut up.’ Beau picks at the bandage, squishes some of the ointment to have a look at it before Jester slaps her hand away from it, scolding her to _leave it be it’s helping_. ‘Hey, I’m sorry we had to leave your mum so quickly.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘You don’t have to say that, Jes. It’s okay…to not be okay.’ Beau grimaces, the sentence sounding silly to her own ears. ‘And I get it. She’s cool, your mum. It’s funny, actually, I was just thinking about how, like, your mum was like _The Ruby_ when she was singing and she had this, life,’ Beau makes a motion in front of her, hands on her chest and moving out.

Jester squints at her. ‘Boobs?’

‘What? No! I mean,’ Beau smirks. ‘Yeah. But _presence_. That’s what I was gonna say.’

‘Right. Presence. Sure.’

Beau rolls her eyes. ‘She was a star, y’know? People couldn’t keep their eyes off her. And then we went to talk to her and it was just us and she was…your mum. That was cool, or whatever. Like she was two different people. But not, I guess.’ She turns to face Jester, who wishes she could see Beau’s eyes behind the smooth glass. She can almost hear Beau’s mind ticking over. ‘She’s good with people,’ Beau says, and the words are smoother, more purposeful. Like she’s been thinking them for a long time. ‘Like you are. Good at knowing what they need.’

Jester waggles her eyebrows. 

Beau snorts. Quietens when Fjord grumbles in his sleep. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. I just think that…when you miss your mum…you can think about how she’s not _really_ that far from you. You’re a lot like her in all the best ways, I think.’ Beau grimaces the whole way through saying it and, to re-establish herself as tough and cool, she reaches out and _shoves_ Jester almost completely sideways. Catching her at the last moment, she helps Jester sit up and for a moment she holds on. ‘Just wanted you to know that. Take the damn compliment, Jes.’

Jester’s cheeks flush hot and she thanks the darkness and her dark skin for hiding the colour. ‘Thanks, Beau.’ An old thought occurs to her and before she can think better of it, Jester commits to asking. If not now, after all, when? She lifts a hand to catch Beau’s wrist in a gentle hold, a tether, so what she asks doesn’t send Beau running. ‘Beau? What’s _your_ mama like?’

Beau releases Jester like she’s burning hot. Still held, she can’t move far so instead Beau unfolds her legs, stretching them out, and she leans back to brace on her free hand. The pose is designed for nonchalance, and to buy her time—as she thinks, maybe, or calms herself down. Jester doesn’t like either of those options but she would like to know which it is. It’s hard to tell with Beau’s face in profile and her eyes hidden. 

‘She’s - I dunno - not much of anything,’ Beau says finally, almost too softly to hear over the obnoxious drone of insects. 

‘Huh? What do you mean?’

‘I mean…’ Beau pulls her legs back in, crosses them. Her knee bounces a few times quickly before she stops it. She scratches at her ear and over the prickling hair of her slowly growing-out undercut. Down her neck, where she rubs at the spot just below where her neck meets her shoulders. Where she mentioned, once, getting that mark for Molly. ‘I - fuck - I don’t know. I have literally no idea _what_ she did with her time. _Does_ with her time.’ A heavy frown digs a trench between her brows. Beau drops her hand into her lap. The wrappings are off and faint bruising purples the knuckles. Haltingly and with a note of surprise to it, Beau says, ‘She drew. I remember ‘cause sometimes at dinner there would be, like, spots of ink on her wrist that she hadn’t seen, hadn’t washed off. Little flecks of paint on her nails. I liked finding that because she was usually really good at being clean. Being _perfect,’_ she adds with a sour twist to her lips. ‘I was a real little shit about it too. _You’re supposed to wash your hands before dinner_ ,’ she says in a childish, bossy tone that makes Jester giggle. 

‘So you’ve _always_ been a little shit.’

‘Ah shuttup,’ Beau grumbles. Huffs a laugh. ‘Yeah. Anyway, yeah, she was the wife of a businessman. Wife of my father, I guess you should actually say. I don’t know that she ever got to do a whole lot.’

‘Oh.’ Jester thinks about her room. About four too-familiar walls and how they had seemed to press so close around her at times until it seemed like they were closing in. About the whole wide world beyond them that she’s finally seeing—the good, the bad, and everything in between. ‘That’s really sad.’

Beau glances sharply across at her. Within a split second, she seems to read Jester’s mind and the tight-lipped expression, the set of her shoulders, the dark frown, all seem to soften. Jester wishes again that she could see Beau’s eyes, and especially when she says, ‘Yeah, I guess it is,’ in as gentle a tone as Jester has ever heard from her. ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that. I just knew—I knew I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t stay cooped up like that.’ 

Jester knows that Beau could get out of the loose grip she keeps around her wrist with ease. But she doesn’t. Instead, Beau turns her hand over and shifts so that she’s holding Jester’s hand. She squeezes. 

‘I didn’t want to become her,’ she says. The words are simple but Beau says them with such conviction—fierce, concrete—that Jester knows there is more, much much more, that Beau hasn’t said. 

//

In the days that follow, as they wind their way up through the Empire, she knows she isn’t being subtle about the comments she drops—‘Wow, one of a kind, Beau’, when the other girl belches half of a halfling song Nott screeches along to; ‘Only you, Beau’, when she pulls a second bag of many, many, _many_ ball bearings out from who-knows-where—but Beau seems to appreciate them. Or doesn’t hate them, anyway. The first time Jester says it, Beau starts and turns toward her, eyes wide, and Jester treats her to a cheerful smile. After that, Beau seems to clue into what she is doing. She doesn’t ask Jester to stop.


	2. Chapter 2

Kamordah is beautiful. Idyllic, even. Rolling hills twist in natural labyrinths of vines. The earth smells rich and sweet, the air crisp and clear and warm; it smells like the perfect summer and fills Beau with a restless energy. Jester keeps saying that it’s _just like in her books_ —friends and a golden summer sky and the sun hanging full in the sky like the shiniest golden coin and fruit plucked straight from the vine and carefree laughter. Beau isn’t so sure. First of all, none of the books talk about such a strange group—two humans, a half-orc, a firbolg, a _goblin_ , an angel and a tiefling—but, well, maybe they do kinda talk about joy and trust that comes with groups like it. She doesn’t dare think it or say it aloud except in private, but Beau also thinks _Love_ and that’s the only reason that she hadn’t left the others back at Kamordah’s inn and made this journey alone. 

Jester is pretending to draw. Maybe she is drawing—Caleb is asleep in the back of the cart with Frumpkin curled up on his face, and that’s exactly the kind of thing Jester likes to draw—but she’s also staring a hole into Beau’s back and it itches something fierce. It probably has something to do with the fact that the restless energy is _pouring_ out of Beau’s skin; she can’t control it, has to keep moving, keep doing _something_ , and she has long since emptied and re-packed her bag, polished her bo and removed the two bows on the end of it. Now her fingers pluck and pull at the bindings on her wrists and hands and she pulls the folds of her clothing neater, into crisp pleats, and tries not to think too much about the look of severe disappointment—or worse, expectation—on her mother’s face when she sees the old stains that didn’t come out of her vestments even after a full night of soaking and scrubbing at them. With nothing more to distract her, it quickly becomes pure _agony_ to sit in the bed of the cart and when Beau sees Jester open her mouth to speak, she leaps over the edge of it so that she can walk beside or, better yet, ahead of the cart. She’s the one who knows the way, after all.

‘Anything looking familiar?’ Fjord asks from his seat next to Nott, driving the cart and the horses. 

Beau glances over the vineyard. She doesn’t know how to tell him that they’ve been walking through Lionette land since earlier that morning. Most of the land here is part of the Lionettes vineyard proper and those that aren’t—the smaller, flatter farms that dot the landscape—still belong to her father, only rented out to the other families. 

‘Yeah. We’re nearly there,’ is what she says, and the truth of it hits her quite without warning when they round a steep hill and see directly beyond it, raised high above the rest of the land on a low cliff, a large house. She hears Jester and Nott begin to talk in low, excited mutters—easily picks out a few words like _mansion_ and _richer than a rich man_ and _steal wine?_ —and ignores them. 

The Lionette estate is dominated by a handsome building. Two storeys of light-coloured stone and dark redwood, it stands regally but with a certain presence Beau never could put a name to when she lived here. Now she knows what it is. Dominating. Severe. Important. On the southern side of the house is a large courtyard, designated by the lines of the stable that curls around the outside of it, leaving the cobbled square free. A tree still grows against the western wall, its roots growing over and down the side of the cliff and digging into the pale stone. At first glance, it looks as though its shadow is thrown dappled and dark against the wall behind it but the sun is still directly overhead so Beauregard looks again and sees now the tangle of ivy and creeping vines growing there. That’s new, and it’s strange to see the new additions—a tower juts up from the south-east corner of the house, the stone a shade darker than the rest of the house, and the old thatched roof of the stable has been replaced by red tiles. 

‘ _Damn_ , Beau! This is where you grew up?’ Fjord whistles, low and impressed. ‘This is _nice_.’

‘It’s really pretty,’ Caduceus agreed. Fallen behind to talk to the vines, his broad fingers sweeping over the bunches of grapes and the rough-edged leaves, he now lopes forward with his long stride to catch up to the slow-moving cart. His fingers are dark with dirt and it looks like he’s tucked a few clippings into his pack. 

Beau glances across the landscape, all green rolling hills, and a shiver travels up her spine. A hint of foreboding, like looking out over the sea-green waves after the call of _shark_ had gone out. Her eyes return to the house. ‘Yeah. It’s pretty.’

Behind her, the cart fills with hushed conversation. 

Beau rolls her eyes. They think they’re all so sneaky but they’re really not—she knows they’re talking about her and, honestly, she can’t really blame them. The closer they got to Kamordah, the tighter she seemed to be strung. Her mounting nerves had resulted in more than just impatience; they had pulled at her temper until it now rests closer to the surface of Beau’s skin than she is comfortable with. She’s been lashing out and retreating just as fast until she feels almost dizzy with it all but she can’t seem to _stop_. When they are leaving this place, maybe. Then she’ll feel more like herself instead of this version of herself that seems to be little more than stretched-thin skin and lightning just below it. 

She’s pulling at her wrappings again, trying to get them to sit _just so_ , and the new tortoiseshell bangles too, when Jester sidles up beside her. She doesn’t say anything, just walks at her side. Beau feels a pulse of warmth in her chest and the lightning, arcing, fizzing beneath her skin, seems to tuck its coils in tighter to her centre. Lets her—for a moment, at least—still for long enough to drape a thin arm around Jester’s shoulders.

//

The cart travels up the path, almost around the estate entirely to rise up behind it. The horses pull the cart in to the courtyard where a polite-faced stablehand emerges and agrees, after a short conversation with Caleb, to care for their horses. His eyes are wide when they rest on Jester and Fjord. 

Beau doesn’t recognise him. 

‘Shall I take the cart as well, sir?’

‘Ja, please. Do not bother to unpack anything, I do not think we shall be here for long.’ Caleb looks to Beau, eyebrows raised. 

She shrugs. 

‘Steal anything and I’ll kill you!’ Nott tells the stablehand, pulling her crossbow. 

‘Nott, Nott, that’s alright, I think,’ Caleb assures her. He hands a gold coin over to the attendant whose eyes, already wide, widen further. ‘And another one, because she did not mean to threaten you.’

’T-thank you, sir!’

‘I _did_ mean to threaten him,’ Nott grumbles, but she stows her crossbow on her belt again anyway and narrows her eyes at the young man. 

‘You know, a gold is like a whole week of work here,’ Beau tells Caleb, though her attention isn’t really on him. It’s on the front door—or where the front door would be. It isn’t visible from where they’re standing but Beau can feel it like a lodestone drawing her attention. 

‘Ja, I know. He is going to take care of Rum Tum Tugger,’ Caleb says. One hand reaches up toward the horse, whose nose drops into the palm where there is, no doubt, a cube of sugar. He pats the soft nose gently, and Tugger snorts, nods. 

‘And Grizabella.’

‘Grizabella I do not care for so much,’ Caleb says. His voice is flat but anyone who is paying attention can see the slight spark of amusement in his eyes, clearly teasing Nott, whose hand strays toward her crossbow again. Caleb huffs the smallest of laughs and then returns his attention to Beau, glacier-melt eyes trained on her. ‘I do not see why I shouldn’t pay him.’

Beau frowns. ‘I’m not _telling_ you not to pay him.’

‘Then what are you trying to say?’

‘Nothing!’ Beau snaps. ‘I don’t know. Forget it! Fuck!’ She pushes violently off the wall where she has been leaning, and strides off toward the front of the house. She digs into her purse and flicks another gold the stablehands way. 

‘Thank you?’ he calls after her, which she ignores.

On her way, she hears Caleb mutter, ‘That was _most_ peculiar,’ and Nott’s answering sigh.

‘Honestly, Caleb, sometimes I wonder about you.’

‘ _Was_?’

‘Jessie, you coming?’

‘I’m coming, I’m coming, my _bag_ is _stuck_!’

‘I’ll get it.’ 

Beau stops for a fraction of a second, glancing back over her shoulder. She can see that Jester has frozen as well as Yasha leans over her; there’s no way that Yasha could have missed the way the other girl flinches—her breath catching in her throat, her tail double-wrapping around her calf—but Yasha makes no mention of it and simply manoeuvres the haversack free. 

‘Ah. It was caught on a nail.’

‘Oh. That would have been _real shit!_ ’ Jester announces. ‘Imagine if I had just kept tugging and tugging on it, it would have come -‘

‘Jes.’

‘ -free. What?’

‘I’m just wonderin’ if maybe you don’t have to make _ev’rythin’_ into a sex joke.’

Jester bats her lashes. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Fjord.’

Fjord barks a laugh, grins. ‘I’m sure you don’t.’

‘Anyway, thank you, Yasha!’ Jester hugs her, and it is clear to anyone watching—which is everyone—that it is more apology for flinching than thanks. The hug lingers. 

Nott sighs again. ‘ _Jester_.’

‘I’m _coming_!’ She tangles her hand with Yasha’s—Beau watches as it is Yasha’s turn to flinch, surprised by the contact that is so very rare these days, and then as her hand curls tentatively around Jester’s—and pulls her toward the gate of the courtyard where Beau waits. 

‘Beau?’

‘Hm.’

‘You okay?’

‘Yes.’

Jester’s eyes drop. She follows Jester’s attention to her own hands, which she finds are opening and closing into fists again and again at her sides and she forces them to still. 

‘Okay,’ Jester agrees. ‘Maybe if you tried telling us the truth, though? That might help us to help you? Like, if you told us what you need?’

‘I don’t need help,’ Beau bites out, and feels instantly rotten as Jester’s expression smoothes. The other girl doesn’t seem hurt; worse, she seems to have been expecting the biting comment. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘I just—just stay close and don’t,’ Beau feels her hands tighten into fists again. ‘Don’t…listen to what they say about me,’ she says, feeling young and stupid and very, very much exposed. 

‘We don’t _have_ to do this.’

Beau scowls. ‘I wish,’ she mutters, and marches forward to the door.

The low, wide steps that lead up to the door are made of the same light stone as the rest of the house and they are warm underfoot from basking in the sun. Two lush potted trees grow on either side of the steps where the stone banisters sweep down and around in a smooth slide. Jester joins Beau as she knocks loudly on the front door; the other girl steps to the side to peer in the glass-paned windows but the interior is dark and the heavy curtains block most everything. She takes a step back when Beau knocks again and gasps. 

‘What?’

‘There’s someone up there,’ Jester whispers.

Beau joins her and looks up, but by the time she does there is nothing and no one there. Just the faintest fluttering of the curtains as they fall back into place. 

‘Ain’t this kinda…strange?’ Fjord asks. ‘I thought they were expectin’ us.’

Beau gives the door a kick. ‘It’s not weird. I mean, it _is_ weird, but not for them. It’s like a power play. Make you wait to be seen. One of the servants is going to show us to the greeting room first—‘

‘You have a room just for _greeting_ people?’

‘ _They_ do. I don’t.’ Beau’s tone is too-sharp and she knows it. Before she can apologise, the others simply take a step closer to her. Not crowding her, just letting her know they’re _here_. She sucks in a breath and forces her body to still, to run through the mantra’s the monks taught her. To settle the nervous, burning energy in her body. ‘It’s a specific kind of fuck you,’ Beau tells them, and she wonders if the meditation thing might have worked a little _too_ well when her voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance, untethered from herself. ‘Like being seen in that room means you’re not important enough to be let further into the house.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yeah.’

As she described, it isn’t long before a stiff-backed servant wearing crisp livery in the Lionette colours opens the door. They usher the group into the first room—unchanged, the antechamber has a slick marbled floor and a delicate chandelier of warm metal and never-melted candles—where they take cloaks and coats and hats. The servant leads them through to the next room, which is spacious and impeccably designed and cold. Literally, the fireplace stacked with perfectly stacked wood for a fire but unlit, and no sign of ashes or coals within that might dirty the space. 

‘I shall fetch the lady of the house,’ the servant promises, before abandoning them there and slipping into the next room. Beau can hear the tap of boots on wooden stairs as the servant hurries up to the floor above.

‘This is…nice,’ Nott says, immediately stepping forward to try and find knick-knacks and drawers to rifle through. There is very little of any of that, the purpose of this room being devoid of such things. Such distractions. 

‘It’s very pretty,’ Jester agrees. Her tail is double wrapped around her calf again, and she sounds guilty as she says it, as though she knows it’s a lie. ‘It’s not very _welcoming_ , though, is it?’

‘Nope.’

Fjord scratches blunt nails over his chin, eyes darting across the room and the chairs. He steps into the space Jester leaves, next to Beau, and he moves slowly through the space as though he’s afraid to knock anything over. He nudges her. ‘How do you want us? Best behaviour? Ruffians? Polite or super blatant “we hate you” vibes goin’ on?’ He pitches his voice so only she can hear and asks, ‘That letter say anything about the kid?’

Beau shakes her head. 

‘Right. So? What’s the play?’

‘I…don’t know. Be yourself, be charming.’ She scratches at her undercut, scrubs at her forehead. Wonders, with a drop in the pit of her stomach, whether she had remembered to wash behind her ears. 

A warm hand settles on her shoulder and squeezes. Fjord stands straight and barks out across the rest of them like they’re back at sea and he’s playing at Captain. ‘Right you lot! Listen up! We are to be charming and polite here—we are guests and here to do proper oh-fficial work! Caleb—brush off some of that dirt and smarten up. Keep an ear on what _exactly_ they want us to do and a keen eye out for anything…off.’

‘Aye, Captain Tusktooth.’ There is a hint of a smile beneath Caleb’s road-grown beard and he pushes to the corner of the room to a hard-backed chair where he begins to read from his spell book the familiar mutterings of what sounds like the spell for detecting magic.

‘Good man. Jester—you’re on sweetness duty. 

‘Like honey,’ Jester agrees, with a gleam of something darker than mischief in her eyes. Though she says and does nothing to suggest it, there is a moment when Beau can’t help but remember seeing the thousands upon thousands of bees descending upon their enemies when she had called for them. 

‘Cad… Do….whatever it is that you do.’

‘Can’t do anything but,’ the gentle giant agrees. He sets himself down on one of the couches and begins to unpack a teapot and several mismatched cups from his pack. 

‘Glad to hear it. Nott—my little green friend,’

‘Don't call me that, I’ll kill you.’

‘You’re going to sneak through this place and search it top to bottom.’ Fjord’s hand squeezes on Beau’s shoulder when she starts, eyes moving from the empty space above the mantle to watch the green pair. 

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

‘Actually, that’s a good idea,’ Beau agrees. She notes again that her voice comes from a distance, through the low roaring in her ears, but it sounds empty of anger thankfully. ‘Search it. There’s a safe behind a portrait of him in his study. The key used to be in the fourth drawer on the left side of the desk but if he’s smart he’ll have moved it by now. Their bedroom is on the second floor, north-east corner. He’ll probably have a couple different ledgers for the business—at least two, more likely three or even four depending on the kind of shit he’s involved in.’

Nott reaches up and lays her hand on Beau’s arm, over a long-healed patch of scars that had once mottled her dark skin. She pats. Her hand is clammy. Without another word, she pulls up the hood of her cloak; her face and form seems to shimmer in the light but when she disappears into the shadowed corners of the room Beau finds it hard to fix onto the woman’s position. The door eases open an inch and then she is gone. 

‘Yasha,’ Fjord says, and he meets her gaze squarely. He grins in the way that makes everyone already want to kick him, even without knowing what he is going to say. ‘You’re the charm.’

Yasha blinks, slowly, and then she smiles. ‘Yes. Yes I am.’

It’s a good plan. Everyone has their assignments and knows what to do. It might even have made them into a cohesive and vaguely frightening unit if not for the fact that they all fall into a slight state of shock when the door to the family quarters finally opens. 

A tall, lean woman stands in the doorway. Her skin is dark and her dark hair is drawn up into a beautiful knot on the top of her head, a jade pin holding it in place. Her eyes are cold and blue and the displeased set of her mouth is all too familiar. If it weren’t for the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the dress she wears, it would be like looking at Beauregard. 

‘Beauregard.’

‘Mother.’

‘You received our letter, then.’

‘Obviously.’

‘I couldn’t begin to guess what might be obvious to you, Beauregard, but since we didn’t receive a reply it wasn’t obvious to me. Please, sit.’ I see you forgot how to clean your boots while you were away on your…excursion,’ she continues, tone cool as a winter’s night. Terribly familiar to Beau. ‘May I get anyone a drink?’

‘Whiskey,’ Beau says, just to see what her mother will do.

She ignores Beau. 

‘Tea, please,’ Jester asks. Her skirts whisper across the smooth fabric of the couch as she picks her place right in the centre of the chair and sits, tugging Beau along to sit with her. 

Beau feels her mother’s cold attention on where Jester’s hand is on hers and tries not to shiver. 

‘I think we’re good for tea, Jester,’ Caduceus says. Seated on the floor at the end of the long, low table, he still has to bend down, contorting himself to blow on the empty space beneath his teapot. A small, barely-there crackle of red flame begins to burn. It doesn’t touch the table at all but slowly they each become aware of the scent of steeping tea that blooms out from the pot. 

Jester smiles a too-perfect smile. ‘Then just some honey, if you have it!’

Her mother doesn’t smile. ‘Of course.’

‘Ah. I would love some milk, if you would be so kind,’ Caleb says from the corner. ‘It is for my cat.’

‘And I’m sure we’d all appreciate some water,’ Fjord drawls. Beau watches with a sparking fury as her mother starts and stares at her friend, at _Fjord_ , who she has risked her _life_ to _save._ She looks at Fjord like she hadn’t seen him where he stood half-hidden by the wall, leaning casually there in the entryway. She looks at Fjord like he has broken into her home. She looks at Fjord with such blatant dislike, distrust, Beau thinks for a moment that maybe that weird fucking snake thing has apparatus around him. Fjord continues on in a mild drawl. ‘We’ve been travellin’ for an awful long time and I’m a bit parched, I must confess.’

‘Right,’ she breathes. ‘Water.’

The door barely closes behind her before everyone turns on Beau. 

‘She looks _exactly like you_! You didn’t tell me this! You look exactly like her!’ Jester shakes her shoulder hard. ‘That’s so _weird_!’

‘If I did not know any better, I would guess, uh, that you were a simulacrum of her,’ Caleb mutters from his corner. Beau twists to glare at him and finds him seated in his chair, geometrical patterns ever so faintly twisting around the fingers of the hand closest to the wall—hidden from Beau’s mother definitely—and the fingers of his other hand are petting and rubbing at Frumpkin’s ears, who is seated now in Caleb’s lap. He lifts his attention from his spellbook and quirks a dry smile in her direction. 

‘I think I know what sim-simulcrin is—‘

‘Simulacrum. Ah, _clone_. Perfect copy.’

‘Right. You reckon _that_ is what Beau is gonna end up like?’ Fjord chuckles. 

Beau flinches. Folds her arms and hunches with a scowl. 

‘That’s a good question,’ Caduceus says. ‘Maybe. Who was it?’

Beau blinks. Snorts. ‘My mother.’

‘Oh.’ He nods. Then stops and shakes his head. ‘I don't see the resemblance. Miss Beau isn’t exactly one for, ah, I want to say veiled commentary? Which that lady seems to be.’

‘You’re…not wrong.’ Beau glances over at him and isn't too surprised to find his large, dark eyes are fixed on her. Unblinking. Curious and calm. ‘Cheers, Deucey.’ His face splits into a wide smile and he nods. Tests the tea pot with a brush of his fingers that makes him hiss. 

The sound of quick footsteps returns from the other side of closed doors and Beau tenses once more. A cool hand—Jester’s—settles on her back. She’s shifted close enough that it would be hard for anyone opposite them to see and the pressure, the support, and the small circles Jester rubs into her spine is enough to get Beau to steady herself. Not relax, not when she knows who is coming to join them, but steady. 

//

Beau looks like her mother. She knows that about herself, and it’s striking to be reminded of the fact now that she can see her mother in front of her and all the way that she has grown into that so-similar body over the years apart. But appearances aside, there is nothing in that small, retreated woman of the loud _force_ that is Beau. 

Unfortunately, she sees a lot of it in her father. 

When Frederick Lionette enters the room, there is no disputing the fact that she is her father’s daughter. Adorine has the blue eyes and the dark hair, but Frederick’s eyes—coal black and glinting with intelligence—spark with keen attention as he examines exactly who is gathered in his house. Beau has clearly inherited all of that from him, plus the seemingly permanent frown. 

Almost all from him, one should say, because Frederick Lionette’s examination—either because he is untrained or due to some other reason determined by the character of a man—does not extend beyond certain limits. His eyes do not stray to the dishevelled man in the corner more than once. He barely looks at the half-orc except to narrow his eyes. And though he sees the tall, pale woman who takes a step forward to be next to Beau and folds her impressive arms, his examination goes no further than their tattered clothing and armour, the colours of their skins, the rather less reputable appearances that cannot be hidden just by their being on their best behaviour. And he looks no further. 

Frederick sits opposite his daughter. He does not sit primly, like his wife who sits beside him, but neither does he lounge like Beau does when he makes his appearance. It is instinctual, it seems, for her to bother him, and she lifts a foot up onto the table and reclines into the chair as though it is comfortable and as though she is relaxed and unbothered by the circumstances, neither of which are true. 

‘Welcome, all of you,’ he says first. His eyes alight on Beau, whose stomach clenches. ‘Beauregard.’

‘Frederick.’

His eyes flash. 

Beauregard feels her muscles tense, preparing herself to run. A breath drawn in stills her; a cool hand on her back braces her. She’s faced giants, and demons, and the barbarian at her shoulder without running. She can do this. 

‘You will call me Father or sir while you are in my house.’

‘I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want.’

‘ _Language_.’

‘Do not baby her, Adorine.’ His attention doesn’t shift from Beau when he reprimands his wife, which means he has to catch the look of mixed fury and derision that flits across her face. He tilts his head, clicks his tongue disapprovingly. Beau had forgotten how much she _despised_ that sound. ‘I had hoped entrusting you to the care of the Soul could solve this problem of yours but I see no evidence of that. How _disappointing_.’

‘ _Entrusted_?’ Caleb asks, tone razor thin and sharp. 

‘Problem?’ Fjord asks in the same moment. He’s larger than Caleb and out of the corner of her eye, Beau can see him take a swaggering step closer. ‘What kinda problem might that be?’

‘I’m rude.’

‘Oh, sure,’ Fjord lazily agrees. He huffs a laugh when Beau flips him off. ‘That’s what we like about you.’

‘I’m certain it is.’ Despite his expression not shifting, there is such derision in Frederick’s voice that the words and the contemptuous look he flicks Fjord’s way _drip_ with it. His eyes flick to the hint of tusk, to the battered leathers, and the muscle over his lip jumps as he fights a sneer. ‘Surrounding yourself with barbaric folk is still your habit, is it?’ His attention slides over to Jester, which is a mistake. ‘I see your taste in companion is still…questionable as well.’

‘ _Don’t look at her._ ’ 

The temperature of the room jumps for an instant as Beau’s anger kindles. She cracks her knuckles and accompanying the sound of popping is the faint discharge of thunder as lightning bursts and arcs around her knuckles for a brief moment. Satisfaction tastes sharply of ozone as she watches her parents expressions flicker for brief moment.

‘The monks taught me plenty,’ she tells him. ‘And the longer you talk, the more willing I am to share some of it. But that’s not why I’m here.’

‘No?’

‘I don’t think you want to test Beau’s patience,’ Jester suggests, very sweetly, as was requested of her by Fjord. ‘Patience has never really been her forte.’

‘I’m well aware.’

‘I don’t think you know jack shit about her, actually,’ Jester disagrees politely, sweetly, dangerously. Her free hand clenches tight around the symbol at her waist before she releases it. ‘So maybe you should just tell us what you want.’ The hand on Beau’s back presses flat. Rubs up and down once. It feels, strangely, like an apology. ‘Tell us about Beau’s brother and what in the Nine Hells you want Beau to do about it, or we’re out of here.’

Beau stiffens. She tries not to let her father see her surprise—easy enough, since he has finally dropped his gaze to the floor, seeming needing a moment to gather his thoughts—and looks, eyes wide, at Fjord. He shakes his head. He hadn’t told Jester either. 

‘I’m certain that you have heard the news about children disappearing far to the north,’ Frederick says after a moment. ‘We believed ourselves to be safe here. We believed that this was some kind of…Xhorhassian movement, some kind of attack on Rexxentrum and its surrounds specifically.’ 

‘It isn’t?’ Fjord asks. They still don’t know—they’d never asked the Bright Queen about it, Beau realises. 

Frederick ignores Fjord. ‘I cannot tell you with a degree of certainty that it is connected, but children began to fall ill in Deerstock. In Endlebridge. All over these lands, from what my contacts could tell me. And then they were taken.’ He meets Beau’s eyes again and for a long moment he doesn’t speak. Finally, with the flat and empty voice of someone who is trying very hard not to pick a fight, he says, ‘We have heard of some of your exploits before you…left the Soul. You did…well for yourself, apparently. We,' he presses his lips flat. Tilts his head to the side quickly before righting it again and it's a special kind of disgust that wells up within her to see one of her own nervous gestures played out so clearly on a man she wants very much to be _nothing_ alike. 'We need your help.’

**Author's Note:**

> hi im unicyclehippo on tumblr as well feel free to swing by & say hi or swing a prompt my way or whatever


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